I pulled at the lid on top of the strongbox; it came open easily. There were bundles of papers inside.
“Examine them if you wish,” she said. “But you will find they are all deeds of our houses, and insurance policies and other domestic documents. I have looked carefully, but do so again if you want to.”
“Later, perhaps. Was the drawer locked or unlocked when you first came to see what was in here?”
“Locked. And the key was in John’s pocket. At the morgue.”
“Is there another key?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood and looked at the drawer for a few minutes, hands in my pockets, thinking. That was a waste of time; no blinding flash of inspiration came to me to solve the problem and make everyone’s life easier. I even considered ridiculous possibilities, and lifted the carpet to see if a sheaf of papers was underneath. Lady Ravenscliff looked on impassively.
“I have searched thoroughly,” she commented.
I looked at her carefully. “I know you have,” I said. And, for the first time, I really believed it. This was not a conclusion that would appeal to anyone with a fondness for tales of detection. Ask me why I concluded that she was telling me the truth, and I could give no satisfactory reason. Nothing had changed since I had walked the streets deciding that the exact opposite conclusion was the more likely. I merely wanted to believe her so much that my desire became reality. Instinct, guesswork, self-interest. Call it what you will. From that moment on I worked on the assumption that my employer was an honest and innocent woman.
She was not, however, particularly grateful for my faith. She scarcely seemed to notice it. Instead, she gestured at the window. “This is where he fell,” she said quietly.
I walked over to the tall sash window in the wall opposite the desk. It was gigantic; some ten feet high as they are in buildings of this sort; stretching low and almost to the ground. The bottom of the frame was less than a foot from the floor, the top only a couple of feet from the ceiling. The two sashes were held shut by a highly polished brass clasp.
I tried to open it; it was stiff, but shifted eventually; the sash slid up only with difficulty and some noise. It was a long way to the ground, and looking out I could see that immediately underneath was a long stretch of thick, spiked, iron railings.
“How tall was your husband?”
“A few inches shorter than you,” she said.
“And not athletic, I assume?”
“Not in the slightest. He was not fat, but set no great store by exercise. Shortly before he died, he was wondering about installing one of these new elevators at the back of the house so he wouldn’t have to walk up and down stairs.”
I smiled. “Good for him. I was just wondering how he managed to fall out of this window. If he tripped on this carpet here, and stepped forward to regain his balance”—I performed the manoeuvre myself to show what I meant—“then he should have cracked his head on the bottom sash. Certainly even the clumsiest of men should have been able to steady himself by grabbing the window frame.”
She was sitting in the little plush-velvet bucket chair by the fireplace now, her hands clasped together in her lap. “I don’t know,” she replied sadly. “I didn’t come up here until much later. I was out that evening, and did not get back until late. The police were waiting for me. They told me there had been an accident and I went directly to the hospital. He was already dead. I didn’t come up here until late that day.”
“And the window was open?”
“No. One of the servants said he had closed it; it was raining and the water was coming in. And he tidied up the room as he does every morning.”
“And was it unusually disarranged?”
“That depends on what you mean by unusually. Once John was finished with a book or a newspaper—or anything, really—he would just drop it on the ground. I very much doubt he would have noticed even if the room was never tidied up. He lived in this house to please me, and because he thought it was the sort of house a man of his standing should live in. It isn’t, of course; had we lived in such a place we would have bought something very much bigger. But he really had no taste for ostentation. We have another house in Paris, which was bought solely for my benefit. He was utterly uninterested in expensive living, although he did like good food and wine. And the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea, but had never managed it. We had planned to buy a house on the coast somewhere. The trouble was we couldn’t agree where. I wanted Biarritz, he wanted Dorset. Curiously, he was a very simple man. You would have liked him, had you given him a chance.”
This sentence was added on so gently I almost missed it. “You think I wouldn’t have done?”
“I think you assume all rich men of business must be cruel and greedy by nature. Some are, no doubt. But in my experience they are no better or worse in general than any other class of man.”
“How many people were in the house at the time of the fall?”
“No more than twelve. My husband and the servants.”
“Everyone but your husband was asleep?”
“I imagine so. Although I have no doubt that some of the servants misbehave themselves when they are not watched. As long as they do their jobs, I do not interest myself in such things.”
Another one of those comments which took me slightly unawares.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because, squalid little reporter with an eye for a story that I am, I still cannot rid myself of the idea that your husband did not fall. I have heard he had a terrible fear of heights. Is that correct?”
She smiled. “Yes, it was. It was what made me fall in love with him.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We were walking over a bridge in Paris, and he suddenly turned pale, and grabbed hold of me. I thought he was making an advance, but in fact he was simply feeling dizzy. It was the first time I realised he had any frailties. But he needed to pretend, so he did kiss me, merely to cover up his weakness. I teased him without mercy until he confessed, and he was as shamefaced as a schoolboy.”
She had such a sweet smile as she remembered this that it was almost a pity to bring her reminiscence to an end, but I did find her memories inappropriate. So I continued on remorselessly.
“So would he have walked up and down by an open window?”
“Not usually. But he did love his cigars, and he knew I hate the smell of cigar smoke. He was prepared to take grave risks, when necessary.”
“Then let me ask you directly: would anyone want to murder your husband?”
“Absurd,” she said promptly. “In his life he was the kindest of men. In his business he had a reputation for fairness. He had rivals, no doubt. But not enemies. He was an easygoing employer to the servants who, in any case, naturally referred to me first of all. Besides, even the most violent and detestable men generally die in their beds.”
“But you know nothing of his business affairs.”
“That is not entirely true. We talked a great deal. Although rarely about the details. I was not greatly interested, and he thought of me as a sort of antidote to work. He was not obsessed with his work. Methodical is a better term.”
I shook my head. “I wish I could say our conversation today has helped me,” I commented, “but it has made me the more confused. I do not think I am giving you very good value for money at the moment.”
“You have a long way to go,” she said. “I do not despair of you yet. What else confuses you?”
“The same question that has always worried me. Why are you bothering? Why do you want me to look for this child?”
“I told you; to respect my husband’s wishes.”
“And I am not convinced. After all, he did not respect his own wishes enough to make the task easy.”
“It is all I can offer you. Have you some further unfavourable interpretation?”
“Ah…”
“You might as well say. You have already accused me of being a murderess, and on the whole I
think I took that fairly well.”
“Henderson told me that the will cannot be settled until this matter is cleared up. So you are dependent on the generosity of the executor until then.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “So rather than respecting John’s wishes, I am selfishly looking after my own. Is that what you are saying?”
“Well…”
“In that case I would hardly have hidden the papers. Besides, I did not come to this marriage a pauper. I have more than enough money, even if I receive nothing from John at all. There is no motive or reason for you at all there. Do you understand?”
“I have offended you. I apologise.”
“I would rather you say these things, than think them in secret. And I suppose they are reasonable. We rich people are cruel and heartless, are we not? Not like ordinary people. Not like you.”
“As I say, I apologise.”
“I will tell you when I accept your apology.”
She stood up. I was dismissed. Or maybe not. I did not know.
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Except—who is this other woman mentioned in his will? This Italian lady?”
“Signora Vincotti? I don’t know. I have never heard the name before. I assume, as I suppose you have already done, that she was his mistress.”
“Does that upset you?”
She looked gravely at me. “Of course. I am distressed he did not trust me more.”
“Pardon?”
“He kept a secret from me. That wounds me. He must have known that I would not have caused a scene over such a trivial matter.”
“It seems he kept more than one secret,” I pointed out.
She looked at me stonily. “Any more questions?”
“Yes. To leave that amount of money to this woman suggests she was not trivial.”
“That is true.”
“Are you not… curious, at the least?”
“I suppose I am. What do you suppose I should do about it?”
“If you wish, I could visit this lady on your behalf. I understand she arrives tomorrow and will stay at the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury.”
She thought about that. “I have a better idea. I will visit her myself. You may come with me.”
A vision of two jealous women rolling on the floor trying to scratch each other’s eyes out floated before me. “I don’t think I would recommend that.”
“It is not for you to recommend anything. I will send a note this afternoon and make an appointment.”
That put me in my place. I could either go with her or not; it would not make any difference to her decision. I decided to go.
“And at the same time,” she said lightly, “we may discover something that will put you out of a job.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke, and I looked on, horrified at the thought that I might have to witness her embarrassment. She was a woman deceived, and had discovered it under the most terrible circumstances.
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was not a useful remark, and she paid it no attention.
“I had no children,” she said eventually. “John said he didn’t mind, that it was enough to have me. That I had brought him all the happiness in the world, and he wanted no more. I am a fool to be so distressed. Of course he had the right to do as he pleased; it made no difference to our life together, and does knowing really make any difference?”
“Yes?”
She nodded. “I should have been able to do that for him. Not some other woman who was so unimportant he never even mentioned her existence. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. My husband’s papers are in those cabinets over there. You may look at whatever you wish. I have instructed the servants that you are to be allowed into the house at all times, whether I am here or not. You see, I have nothing to hide.”
And she left. I contemplated beginning on the daunting array of filing cabinets—which, I considered, would be most likely to contain something of use—but could not face it. The interview had left me disoriented, shaking almost.
CHAPTER 11
I was feeling increasingly out of my depth. Commenting on a murder case was one thing; unravelling someone like Lady Ravenscliff was another. So I went to the Ritz, to see my little elf. It was, I gathered, where Xanthos habitually stayed when in London; I learned that he maintained permanent rooms there, at gigantic cost. “So he is some grandee, then?” I asked, slipping into reporterly mode. I was in the Lamb, just round the corner in Mason’s Yard; it was where the Ritz went. I bought a round of drinks to reinforce the question. That’s the good thing about hotels: servants of the variety who work for the Ravenscliffs have a sort of loyalty, and it is difficult to chisel information out of them. But people who work in hotels will tell you anything for a drink; they have no discretion at all.
“Must be” was the collective reply. But no one really knew. He came, he went. In general he was never there for more than a fortnight at a time, but always wanted his rooms ready. No women had ever been spotted, but visitors and guests aplenty. The bills, though, were paid. That they knew, but there the limitations of their trade came into operation. Xanthos was rich. He was foreign—Greek, they reckoned. What did they care how a strange little Greek came to be able to afford a suite at the Ritz? I knew salesmen, they made good murderers. Lonely people, shuffling from boardinghouse to boardinghouse, washing their shirts overnight. No family, no friends; never in the same place long enough. They were the nomads of the industrial age, always wandering, always moving on. There was, no doubt, a camaraderie, a fraternity of such people, but it did not seem much of a life to me. And they did seem to commit murder—normally squalid, dirty little murders—more often than they should have done. Or maybe they were too miserable to take the necessary steps to avoid being caught.
Mr. Xanthos was evidently a different species of salesman altogether, but the hotel people told me little in return for my money—only that he had been in London the week Ravenscliff had died, and had left shortly afterwards. That he came and went all the time, and had his mail forwarded when he was away for more than a month.
“Or if the letter says please forward,” someone chipped in. “Like last autumn, when he went to Baden-Baden. To take the waters,” he said in a mock-posh accent.
“Or when he went to Rome last April and that trunk arrived for him. Do you remember the trouble that caused, shipping it off? And no thanks when he got back, either. It might have been a postcard we’d sent on, for all he cared.”
He was an interesting fellow, I thought, when he opened the door to his suite, and a curiously attractive one, short, dapper, unconventional, with a bright smile and quick, precise movements. Welcoming, friendly, quite unlike Bartoli.
“It is kind of you to see me,” I said. We were in his fabled rooms, and very splendid they were; grand enough to intimidate someone like me, who had never even been in the public area before, let alone in one of the most expensive of the hotel’s apartments. There was a huge salon ornately decorated with rich red wallpaper and gallons of gold paint, what I assumed was a bedroom and bathroom next door, and a separate dining room. While I was there, there was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of people bringing food, messages, coal and logs for the fire; even his coffee was poured for him by someone else.
“On the contrary, I am very curious about you,” he replied. His eyes twinkled as he spoke, in a voice which was well modulated but overlaid with so many accents it was impossible to tell what the original might once have been. He nestled—almost snuggled—down in his armchair like someone protecting himself from a gale; I half-expected him to wrap himself up in a blanket as he spoke, or tuck his little legs underneath him.
“In that case the curiosity is mutual. If I may—”
“No,” he said, “I will ask first. I invited you, and am providing the refreshments.” He paused for a considerable while as he leaned forwards and poured two cups of tea. Lemon for him, milk and sugar for me. I’m a traditionalist.
“Ve
ry well. What do you want to know?”
“Just why dear Lady Ravenscliff chose you for this project? I am sure you know as well as I why that might excite some interest amongst those who knew her husband. And who, I may add, are protective of his memory.”
“There I cannot really help, I’m afraid. I had never met either of them before I was offered the task. And, as you no doubt gathered from my conversation with Mr. Bartoli, I have no experience whatsoever in things financial.”
“And she knew so many people who were expert… Do you think she wanted someone who was not employed by her husband? An independent outsider? Could that be it?”
“Why would she want that? I flatter myself that what she wanted was someone who could tell a good story, make her husband’s life interesting. There are few successful novels with bankers or industrialists as the hero. Fewer still that are written by bankers or industrialists.”
“That is true,” he replied. “And a sad condemnation of the book reading public it is. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that is all it is.”
“You sound doubtful. Although I thank you for being less offensive than Mr. Bartoli.”
The elf waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He is just as rude to me. And everyone, in fact. It’s his way. He is a very efficient man, the perfect doorkeeper for someone like John Stone. Although I imagine he is concerned about what is to become of him now. Lady Ravenscliff, I am sure, will not require his services. I assume she is the beneficiary of his will?”
Aha. I thought. So that’s it. I smiled.
“I really couldn’t say,” I said. “I am hardly privy—”
“No, I suppose not. Still, you will have gathered that I am curious. And as you come to know more about his business you will understand why. How do you find Lady Ravenscliff?”
A question only the foreigner would ask. No Englishman would ever be so direct.